The meaning of a four letter word

The conversations out here start differently. Variations on "Ja-ged-any-rain"?"and "How-much-ranger-get?" take the place of the pedestrian, "how ya going?" or for a new acquaintance, "what do you do?"

When I answer the phone in my parents home, I am obliged first to answer these questions before any further business can be transacted. I don't always know the significance of the numbers, but I can look out the window and see the green carpet.

I noticed in town, the amount of rainfall is the single topic discussed. Jungian collective consciousness puts a spring in the step of those lucky to be the recipients of rain, while others' shoulders droop, betraying the fact that they are still waiting.

The air outside is steamy and the plains are hazy, heavy with moisture. The luxury can not be described. I walk out in the garden, working hard to make my way across the verdant lawn, watching for snakes - it's only a couple of days since one met Dad on the lawnmower. Roses show off in various garden beds and the crickets and frogs sing their noisy, cheerful chorus at any time of day. I look up at the trees where the koalas usually live, but none are about. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a brown creature with tall ears sitting very still. First I think it's a hare, but then it seems too big and I think it could be a small brown wallaby. I look again and realise it's a hare, gorging on the heavenly green. Its only moving parts are the jaws. It looks at me. I stay still and it continues the feast. Alfie, the Jack Russell, shows his age by showing no interest in a chase. Around another corner, brilliant red, green and blue parrots take flight as Alfie approaches.

A magpie gargles, singing the song that I love. It's the sound of morning in the Australian bush.

Mr Lincoln roses from the garden, fresh today.
© 2015 divacultura

Manchurian Pears
© 2015 divacultura

Beyond the fence post
© 2015 divacultura

Study in contrasts. I never tire of this majestic tree.
© 2015 divacultura

My favourite dead tree finally keeled over. I will miss it's Tim Burtonesque addition
to the landscape. It still makes an interesting study.
© 2015 divacultura

Out in the rain, out on the tracks

Sorry about my absence. Funny how the days sneak up and bleed into the nights and suddenly lots of them have slipped by.

Metro Trains have changed the time table. I haven't quite worked out what it all means, but their great smart phone app, called "Notify" lets me know each morning when my train is due to run.  For example, the 7:20am now departs at 7:18 because of the changed timetable. Great service. Unfortunately, there's been a few occasions where the next communication is to advise that the train has been delayed. Ironically, it's later than it would have been if the timetable hadn't changed. 

Still on the subject of public transport, Melbournians lose their usually excellent capacity to play well with others when it involves rain, peak hour and public transport. As I watched the sky turn from a sunny blue to a terrifying black, I made my plans to exit the building. I finished a phone call from a friend and was just about to take his advice and leave (the temperature had dropped to about 8 degrees with wind and rain thrown in for extra excitement) when my boss stopped me to check in on a few things. By the time I left, it was even colder and much wetter. Huddling at the tram stop, with only a tiny foldable umbrella - rendered impotent by the wind - I found a new definition of misery. This new definition was replaced a moment later as I huddled, damply, on the tram. I tried to wrangle my umbrella so I didn't wet anyone anymore than they already were. Meanwhile, I felt a wet patch growing on my back. The woman behind me was pressing her soaking, dripping umbrella into my back. We adjusted. The tram stopped a the next stop. No one alighted. A few determined people squeezed into non-existent space, pleading for us to move in. We were so squashed that the only way I could create more space was to inhale, so I did. 

The next ordeal was negotiating the stupidly skinny tram platform that was packed with too many people, plus their backpacks in the rain with umbrellas and rain hoods making it impossible to see each other. We stood on our refuge, wedged between the tram line and two lanes of traffic. Opposite, a man squatted down with his camera and leaped to action when we started to cross.

My outfit served me well today, drawing comments from many quarters: 

"That's a very eclectic outfit". I chose to respond with "thank you".

"Your dress is hitched up at the back, let me just...oh...how does it work?" I explained the complex rigging involved and thanked her for being concerned.  She revealed her plan to protect my modesty.

"What a fantastic outfit!" was the best comment of the day, as I interacted with people who are more from "my" world.

Hail, rain and wind are on the cards for tomorrow. I must prepare for the travel odyssey ahead. I shall think of it as character building.

We certainly saw Lorraine today: http://youtu.be/Lw6zjxH9aAk

To borrow a phrase - I can't stand the rain

It's raining in Melbourne. It's been raining solidly for the last couple of days. Apparentlly we've received our monthly rainfall in a couple of days. I forget which month. It's a bit wearing, travelling around, hauling umbrellas, avoiding others' umbrellas, being constantly damp, managing frizzy hair, but it's been lovely to see the grass green again.

I've been persisting with my daily walk. The trains and trams are so stuffy and humid that it's actually nicer to be out in the air, even if you are a bit damp and your hair has turned into a fuzz ball. In one spot where I walk there is a glorious stand of eucalyptus trees. I pause to take in the scent. I also notice the bubbles forming on the puddles and feel sorry for the people trapped in their cars, lined up and going no where.

I've been puzzled by the people I've seen hunched over, as if they are making themselves so small, they would fit between the raindrops. In one hand they clutch an umbrella. Why don't they open it and take shelter?

Umbrellas are particularly hazardous when boarding and alighting from trains and trams. I was nearly stabbed to death by a small Asian woman who suddenly changed direction while we waited to touch off our mykis on the way out of the station. I stood very still and she looked terrified.

All the floors are slippery and I walk like a 90 year-old woman everywhere I see a smooth service. Since my fall last year, I'm acutely aware of how a simple fall can cause serious injury. I'm constantly surprised by how many walking surfaces are completely unsuited to wet weather and rushing crowds of people.

This morning's commute was chaotic. Power failures further down the line meant cancellations and delays. As the train pulled into the station 15 minutes late, the windows were dark with crowds inside and fogged with all their breathing. I insinuated myself into an inadequate space, having already let one train pass. I held onto an overhead railing at an angle just wrong enough to make me feel discombobulated when I finally arrived at my destination.

Coming home a woman asked whether station announcements are made on the train.

"Sometimes," I told her. "If you're lucky, they might even be accurate."

She looked at me like I was some kind of zealot.

Soon the voice of Metro trains announced that the next station was Seddon. It wasn't. It was South Kensington. Only two stops out. The woman looked at me with mistrust when I told her where to get off. The train, I mean. I shrugged. She could trust me - a stranger on a train - or she could trust the disembodied, malfunctioning woman with the voice. Or she could look out the window and see the name of the station.

It's nice to arrive home to a dry place; although I'm slightly nervous that the unattended hole in the ceiling will soon prove to be catastrophic.

As I settle in to watch Survivor tonight, I'm reminded to be glad that I'm not camping on a beach, even if I was in the running to win a million dollars. Or in north Queensland waiting for the cyclone to arrive.

How do you feel about rain?

I'm profounded - I mean confounded - words matter.

I received a lesson in the importance of precision in language today.

Back in May, during a period of very wet weather I told my real estate agent that I could hear dripping in the ceiling. There was no reaction. Three days later I had water running down one of the walls in my bedroom. The light fitting was sparking as the electricity met the water that was running through there.

A (very handsome) electrician came and dealt with the electricity - in the ceiling - and left a gaping hole in my heart ceiling. Since then I've had no light in the bedroom and a gaping hole in the ceiling. I have taken to wearing a miner's lamp when I'm selecting my wardrobe for the day.

This happened seven months ago.

People sprang into action last December and decided that the week before Christmas was a convenient time to pack and remove the contents of the apartment, remove the ceiling, replace the ceiling, paint the bedroom and restore the contents. I had other plans thinking that my recent five week absence would provide the perfect opportunity.

Things don't always turn out the way we hope. I won't bore you with the details, but I arrived home to be confronted with packed boxes stacked in the lounge room, bedroom and the entry to the bathroom. And I brought suitcases which also needed to be unpacked. It was 42 degrees Celsius and I had to start work the following morning.

You can imagine the conversations I've been having. I'm writing everything down so they can feature in the absurdist script I'll produce one day. One of them involved the agent advising me to "just follow your normal routine". What am I? A rat in a box maze? She clearly thinks I'm insane. Or some kind of contemporary artist making a statement about some aspect of society as I turn my place into a piece of performance art. Shame I can't sell tickets. There's nowhere for the patrons to stand. I've rigged up a periscope so I can watch television. That's the only activity I can reasonably accomplish - unless I consider moving boxes around to be a leisure activity.

Anyway, the precision of language...imagine my initial surprise when the agent shared an email telling me that she had advised the insurance person and the owner that the flat is "inhabitable". After some thought, I decided she was right, but there was something off about the tone of the email.

Today I received another email telling me again that she'd told the insurance guy that the place is "inhabitable" but also that he shouldn't take her word for it and would need to see for himself.  Again, I had a nagging worry that she actually was using the wrong word.

I had to find out, but was unsure how to ask without causing offence.  I settled on asking if she meant "inhabitable" as in I can live there or "uninhabitable" as in I can't live there.

Her single-word response came: uninhabitable.

I imagined the insurance agent being moved to even higher levels of frantic inaction with the vehement statements that the place is inhabitable! Any wonder nothing much has happened in seven months.

Considered with the correct understanding, the email from the agent became even more ridiculous as it finished by stating "the place is [un]inhabitable and the insurance agent is aware of that so just wait and see what happens"!

Lucky the roof wasn't blown off! Imagine what "urgently waiting" feels like when you've got bigger problems than not being able to coordinate your outfit or needing to use a torch when you make your way to the bed. Add some boxes into the pathway and you've got added excitement at bed time.

My response in this situation is to initially get angry, then I go floppy and then I start looking for comedy to exploit. I can't even drink as an activity because I've given up alcohol for February as part of Feb Fast.*

Oh and I'm also taking legal advice.

* See how hard it is! I'd love you to sponsor me and support programs for young people who suffer from addictions

Stream of consciousness - musings on journeys and problems and Melburnians.

Today I'm grateful that the most obvious to response to this information: "I'm going to get my hair done." isn't, "Which one?"

That sentence was really quite difficult to punctuate. How did I go?

Every time I have been to the hairdresser in 2013 it has rained on my way home. This is definitely a first world problem.

Speaking of first world problems, the other day I was at Flinders Street Station trying to locate my train (you'd think this would be easier than it actually is). I'd been waiting at Platform 8 for a while. This wasn't random, the signs all pointed to the fact that this was the place for the 5:36 pm to Laverton. A train arrived on the platform. The crowd of waiters (not the drinks kind) surged forward under the impression that the train would be the 5:36 pm to Laverton. As we surged, the sign changed its mind and informed us that it was the 5:40 pm to somewhere else, like Frankston or Packenham. We held back. An announcement informed us that the train on platform 8 was indeed the 5:36pm to Laverton. We surged forward and settled into our seats. "Settled" isn't really the right word. We were unsettled, but I don't know how to unsettle. The sign inside the train suggested the train was going to Packenham or Frankston. People dithered. Who to trust? The written word on a sign that has been wrong before or the live announcement from a human. I assume it was a human. Just as I relaxed in preparation for my journey homeward, an faint announcement was heard outside the train which sent a ripple of anger, a shiver of confusion through the commuters on board who had foolishly trusted the announcement last time. This announcement told us that we were on a train going to Frankston or Packenham and that the 5:36pm Laverton train was now arriving on platform 9! Could we trust the announcement? We surged from the train on to the platform and found a small moustached man wearing an orange high-vis vest and asked him the pertinent question: what the hell is going on? He shrugged in response.

The shrug was like an ember on a stream of petrol. Teeth were bared. We just needed to know which train, where, so we could go home.

Off to one side of the group a woman announced:  "First world problems people! First world problems! Some people don't have a home to go to, let alone a train to get there on. These are first world problems."

That didn't even make sense. As she wasn't getting on any train, but just hanging around the platforms passing moral judgement on people responding to chaos and the cosmic joke that is Flinders Street and Metro Trains at peak hour, I wondered where she was trying to go.

Another man tried to argue to logic of how the 5:40pm train had arrived before the 5:36pm train and it should be ours! I wanted to start singing songs from "Les Mis". I refrained. By that I mean I didn't. I don't mean that I sang a chorus.  Another shrug and he would have hijacked the train and taken us all west. We would have heard the people sing!

Once you're on a train in peak hour there's the added problem trying to navigate overcrowding of the aisles when there are lots of seats vacant. They're vacant because people don't move over and fill the seats furthest from the aisles first. They hog the outside seats hoping to have a bank of two or three to themselves.

I ask people nicely if I may have their seat. They look shocked. Then they move over. I always get a seat.

Then I hand them a tissue because they will inevitably be sniffing the entire liquid contents of their head back into their nasal passages. Repeatedly. What is with Melburnians and sniffing on public transport?

This was a diversion from the hairy, smelly man who was engaging himself in detailed conversation this morning on the way into the city. I didn't mind the conversation, but the smell was hard to take in closed quarters.

Then I heard that the baby elephant born at the Melbourne Zoo nearly a year ago died overnight. I never met Sanook but I had watched a documentary about the elephants at the zoo. I felt sad.

The rain fell, providing a sympathetic background of Shakespearean proportions and a mechanism to negate the efforts of my hairdresser.

Fixing the hole

Suddenly there's a flurry of urgency to fix the hole in my ceiling, caused when a broken roof tile let the rain in and turned the ceiling into a soggy mess and the light into a fizzing danger zone.  This all happened in May.  After the initial stream of tradesmen and insurance assessors the interest in the hole in my ceiling returned to zero.

This didn't really bother me.  Although finding clothes in my wardrobe was like mining underground and applying makeup required a leap of faith, the prospect of living in a space where the ceiling is removed, replaced and painted kept me quiet.

Last week I had some missed calls from the insurer's builder.  It seemed like he thought I was the owner so I referred him to the real estate agent.  A couple of days later, I received an email from the agent asking if it was okay for her to give the key to the guy for a couple of hours on Wednesday morning so he could "do some insurance work".

I knew from the conversation I had with the insurance assessor on the day they made the assessment that the ceiling would need to be removed, a new one put in and the room painted, so I wasn't quite clear about what was going to happen on Wednesday morning.  I called her.  She didn't know anything and told me to speak to the guy.  I did.  He said they needed the room emptied and it would take at least three days to complete the job.

I called her back and repeated what I'd already told her about the works to be done.  Where was all my stuff to go?  Her suggestion was to put it in another room.  I live in a small two bedroom flat where all the rooms are used.  There's no space to just transplant a whole room of furniture and clothing!

Before I head interstate again (which would provide an ideal opportunity to do the works) I need to pack up my small personal items and find somewhere to put them.  This is easier said than done when I have a lot of work on and doing it at night time is challenging because it's dark!  My bedside lamp is designed to create a mood, not a work site.  A local charity will discover a donation of several handbags which I had forgotten I had, so I dusted them off and hope others will appreciate them.  The benefit is an enforced clean out, but the timing is awful.

Apart from these logistics, there's the issue of providing unsupervised access to my home for a bunch of work men whom I've never met.  A friend who has lived through plastering said to be prepared for the whole house to be covered in plaster dust!  None of it is good.  And it's made worse by the fact that the extent of the damage would have been minimised if the agent had done something when I first reported that I could hear dripping in the ceiling!

There's nothing I can do, but embrace the opportunity for a clean out.  Embracing with gritted teeth.

Ten questions for today.

1) Is advertising on hand dryers in public toilets effective?

2) Who ever uses a full bottle of nail polish?

3) Why does it rain whenever I have my hair blow waved?

4) Why can't people follow the instructions for recycling?

5) What is unclear about a sign that says "No Junk Mail"?

6) Why do people insist that you "need some sugar" when you tell them you don't eat sugar?

7) Why do businesses refuse to deliver to post office boxes?

8) Where do those text messages telling you you've won "a million pounds" come from?

9) Why, in the digital age, does it still take 3 business days for a cheque to clear?

10) What do visitors to Melbourne think when they can't top up their myki and they discover there are no toilets available at the station?

Answers to these questions are welcome.
What questions are you asking today?

I told you I could hear dripping!

Back after a brief hiatus.  Various things piled up and toppled over and I was on the bottom of the pile. And here I am today with some actual (rather than metaphorical) piling and toppling.  It all started with the dripping.

A couple of nights ago I heard a sound in my ceiling when I was in bed.  I'm on the top floor so it wasn't neighbours walking around.  It sounded like water dripping.  I duly reported to the real estate agent that I could hear water dripping in the ceiling.  I heard it again last night.

This morning I happened to be at home when there was a very heavy downpour of rain.  I went into the bedroom to see if I could hear the dripping sound and was confronted by water trickling down the wall behind my bed!  Well, that confirmed it - I wasn't crazy,  I had been hearing dripping.

I immediately called the real estate agent.  Mine is pretty good most of the time.  She is still afflicted by the property manager's malaise - tenants are the bottom of the pile and nothing is really urgent until it's really urgent.  As I was on the phone to her, I heard sizzling and crackling and water started to run from the light fitting in the ceiling.  The property manager's first words were something like "well it's raining...no one is going to come out while it's raining."

This is the kind of statement that infuriates me in this kind of situation.  Firstly, I was very aware that it was raining.  Secondly, the longer it took to get someone to stop more water getting into the ceiling, the more serious the situation would be.  Thirdly, it's still urgent and the cumbersome processes when you have to deal with layers of different organisations take a long time to navigate.  You have to start right away.

I felt my mind leaping to the worst case scenario, so took a breath and thought about all the ways that this situation wasn't as bad as it might have been.  How fortunate that I was at home this morning!  How pleasing that I wasn't away somewhere leaving the problem unnoticed for days or maybe weeks.  The ceiling hadn't collapsed, so that was something.

I called the electricity supplier about the sizzling electricity and had a conversation that was frightening but later revealed to be hilarious.

At this stage I had a plastic bucket sitting on towels on my bed catching the water from the light fitting and towels on my bed head catching the water trickling down the walls.  The man at the electricity company said that I should not touch the bucket or the water in the bucket because it was likely to be electrified.  It seemed intense, but I wasn't going to argue and I didn't want to be electrocuted.  I asked him what I should do when the bucket needed to be emptied.  He said that was my decision.  I thought he had misunderstood the question so I clarified that I meant I wanted to know if it was safe just to tip the water out.  He said it was my decision.  I didn't understand the answer so asked him what he meant.  He then said he couldn't say anything because of the legal risk.  If I followed his advice and was still electrocuted then I might sue them.  Well probably not if I was dead, but I didn't point that out.  He then said I should vacate the property until further notice and stay away from the taps if I was going to stay.  Since I had to be there to meet plumbers and electricians I decided to stay well back from the killer taps.

Within half an hour two blokes from the electricity company arrived to see what they needed to do about supply to the property.  They looked and promptly flicked the mains switch in the switch board.  I asked them what I should do with the water in the bucket.  They looked at me as though I was a crazy cat lady and said, deadpan,  "Empty it." I laughed and explained the conversation with the guy at the electricity company.  They guffawed and shook their heads.  "Yeah, right.  So you've got a bucket of electricity...ooooh!"  They left muttering to themselves about idiots.

With that done I went into the village to buy lunch and a plastic drop sheet to cover my bed.  The $2 shop had a huge one for $2 so I bought two.  When I arrived home to cover my bed with it, a big yellow-brown patch had appeared on my fresh white sheets.  I'll bleach it later.  Buying the sheet was a good idea.

I then received a succession of phone calls from tradies called Steve and Mike and Josh.  The plumbers went on the roof and discovered two broken roof tiles.  I scouted around the property and found a couple of others lying around so they were able to stop more water filling the ceiling.  They talked nonchalantly about the prospect of ceiling collapse and replacement of the entire ceiling.  I started to think about the logistics.

Then the (very handsome) electrician arrived - all tall and broad shoulders and twinkly eyes and nice hands.  He was friendly and told stories of strange people he encounters on a regular basis.  I hope I'm not one of his stories he'll tell to the next customer.  We talked power points and my lack of them.  He told me about the power points he has installed in his place - it sounded like heaven, compared to my one power point per room.  I had power point envy!  I was sorry to see him leave and wished I had the courage to say out loud what was on my mind - it was all about inspecting my fuse box but I'll leave that thought there.

The dripping has finished and I'll be able to sleep in my bed tonight.  Hopefully the ceiling won't collapse on me.  And even if it does, I'm still pretty well off.  Even though I've just seen an enormous spider lazily walking along the water wall.

After everyone had left and the electricity was back on I boiled the kettle.  It was one of the best cups of tea I'd had for a while.

Interior decoration brought to you by the weather.
© divacultura 2013

Cue circus music, fluff your hair - it's time to commute in the rain!

There are some things in the world that are meant to be fluffy: kittens, toys, towels, dandelions, bunnies, Santa's beard.  You will notice that my hair is not on this list; especially when I've spent some money to have a sleek, smooth blowdry.

Yet here I sit, fluffy haired, exhausted from the epic nature of my journey from work to home - if "epic" can appropriately be applied to traversing a mere 10 kilometres.

All week, people have been complimenting me on my smooth locks.  Curls and ringlets had been framing my face for the last month.  The first appointment I made upon my return to the big smoke was with my hairdresser.  Urgent magic was required to cover my - ahem - grey.  I decided that straight hair would be a nice change.  With the weather in Melbourne being bone dry and all the rain falling in the north I thought my investment would last a week.

Today as I was sitting at my desk deeply engaged in a telephone conversation, I looked up.  I suddenly panicked, thinking I had been swallowed into some kind of fluorescently lit hell where time has no meaning and it was actually midnight.  It wasn't.  It was 5:10pm.  It just looked like midnight.  Ah, the gods were playing with us for their pleasure, causing a downpour and throwing in some wind right on going home time.

My journey home involves a short walk to the unsheltered tram stop through many lanes of cars; a ride on a tram; navigation of one of the busiest tram stops in Melbourne to walk across to Flinders Street Station; a train ride and then a seven minute walk home from the local train station.  It sounds like a lot when written like that, but usually it's fine.

Today it wasn't fine.  Today my hair went fluffy.

In my handbag I always have a compact umbrella.  My rationale is that I'll always be prepared in the event of unexpected rain.  Melbourne's reputation for changeable weather has been well earned, so this is a good thing to do.  Except for one thing - compact umbrellas are useless when it does actually rain.  This level of incompetence is elevated to pointlessness when the rain is accompanied by wind.

Now my hair is fluffy.

If that wasn't enough to deal with, I arrived at Flinders Street station with soaking trousers and feet.  Luckily, I also travel with a pair of thongs in my handbag so my beautiful, expensive shoes are not ruined in heavy rain.  According to the information provided on the screens in the station, I only had to wait about 8 minutes for a train home.  I entered the station at about 6:10pm but only boarded the 6:32pm train at 6:38pm.  I had been waiting on platform twelve for the train that never came.

Then we had the opportunity to participate in one of the practical jokes that Metro Trains likes to organise occasionally. I've been in this one before: the screens tell you to go to platform ten.  After a couple of minutes, an announcement tells you that the train will now be leaving from platform 12.  The commuters heave a sigh and scramble over to the other platform.  Upon arrival there, an announcement says that the next train leaving from that new platform is to a completely different destination from the one you were expecting.  All staff have disappeared from this platform.  The screen has gone blank and there are no announcements being made.  As you confer with other commuters, you hear the faint sound of an announcement being made back on platform ten informing any passengers who are left on platform ten that the train there is in fact the train that everyone who is now on platform twelve is expecting over there!

To make it even more fun, you organise this prank to occur during a downpour so everyone is wet, cold and cranky and the platforms are super slippery.  If you only make announcements at the last minute this adds excitement as people ignore the warnings not to run and run to catch a train.

As I finally walked home from the station I was grateful for my thongs but also struggling to keep them on my feet.  There was so much water I thought they might float away from under my feet.  This is what I experienced in Darwin during a tropical downpour.  At least the rain there was warm.  The rain in Melbourne is not warm, even in the middle of summer.

At least my house isn't flooded and I have a warm shower, clean dry clothes and a warm bed for the night.  But...my hair is fluffy.

Weekend snaps

It was a stunning day in Melbourne yesterday.  I went to the Royal Exhibition Building in the Carlton Gardens to visit the Finders Keepers Markets.  They were fun, but the gardens and fountains were begging to be photographed.

Cherubs and gods
(c) divacultura 2012

Mythic fountain
(c) divacultura 2012

The Carlton Gardens
(c) divacultura 2012

Royal Exhibition Building -interior
(c) divacultura 2012

Window details
(c) divacultura 2012

On the way there, I travelled on the escalator in Parliament Station.  I was in a visual kind of mood and noticed the surfaces and details.

Escalation
(c) divacultura 2012

Parliament Station - don't wave your myki

One foot up
(c) divacultura 2012

And today we've just had an amazing storm.  The rain arrived horizontally carrying small hailstones.  The thunder cracked and afterwards this is what happened.

First one then...
(c) divacultura 2012

...a double!
(c) divacultura 2012

I've had a great weekend.  How about you?

Happiness is...the small moments.

Browsing in the book store the other day, I saw Snoopy and Charlie Brown out of the corner of my eye.  They were on the cover of a book by Charles M. Schulz called "Happiness is a warm puppy".  It made me smile and I thought to myself, "Isn't it though?"  On this grey Melbourne day, here are some things that I've caught myself feeling happy about today.

1. Happiness is waking up to the sound of rain and the knowledge that it was right to cancel our outdoor choir gig today.

2. Happiness is knowing that the weather bureau was accurate with the weather forecast.

3. Happiness is realising my dress was on inside out before I left the house.

4. Happiness is not being the driver of the vehicle facing the wrong way after coming off the road and crashing into the safety railing.

5. Happiness is the satisfaction of doing the washing and drying it on the line in yesterday's lost sunshine.

6. Happiness is a series of green lights that allowed me to arrive fifteen minutes early when I expected to be five minutes late.

7. Happiness is not having an addiction that requires me to sit in my wheelchair in my pyjamas in the rain outside the hospital so I can smoke a cigarette.

8. Happiness is having pyjamas that I wouldn't be embarrassed to wear out if the situation required it.

9. Happiness is meeting a parking inspector who told me not to hurry back as he was just finishing his shift and I shouldn't worry if I went "a bit over".

10. Happiness is taking some time to think about the small things that are good.

My brother has just moved house and I spoke to him on the morning after the move.  He told me: "I'll pay you a million dollars if you can drive up from Melbourne and find the kettle."

It's the small things really.